


Episode Drabble #4

by uirukii



Series: Turn the Century [5]
Category: The Monstrumologist Series - Rick Yancey
Genre: 80's dorks, Gen, Modern AU, Turn the Century AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 18:17:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4635363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uirukii/pseuds/uirukii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Pellinore receives his first paternal note, his first car, and his first of many letters to come</p><p>(March 1990)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Episode Drabble #4

The cream coloured envelope sat intolerably upon his desk, the unknown penmanship a slap in the face as much as the affluent trimmings of the elegant seal and twisting letterhead.

Two years of agonizing over letter after letter in a cramped and cold dormitory, five years of sustained and willful silence only broken by a note regarding his graduation, and then a couple attempts again at trying to pry open the inflexible cold heart of a man unwilling to admit his son's existence. Much less some trifling achievements such as obtaining a full bachelor's and master's degree before the age of twenty-one, the age where most students actively pursued the achievement of legally drinking themselves into a stupour.

Not once did he receive a letter in return. A note. A card. Anything.

And now, the first and only one Pellinore Warthrop had ever received lie hurled upon his desk, a single stately check dangling limply over the edge before falling pitifully to the floor.

A single check for ten thousand dollars, and nothing else.

Pellinore felt sick to his stomach and the action of throwing his father's money wasn't as satisfying as he would have liked.

A year after his graduation with the highest honours he could have achieved and four months after his first led expedition ended in failure, he received this. _This._

Perhaps his father was simply throwing money at him to become more worthwhile or maybe it was his father's personal brand of humour, to congratulate one's failures as a back-handed accomplishment.

Pellinore was shaking. Every iota of his core radiated disgust and anger and all the festering hurt he had tamped down over the decade like some unturned landfill. He didn't care what the reason was for his father's note, one not even written in his own hand.

He didn't want to care at all.

An arm shot out and hurled the entire contents of his desktop onto the carpeted floor. He screamed out obscenities. He kicked his paperwork aside, their contents mocking him on his failure in the Amazon, and unleashed his frustration in a keening wail.

He didn't want it to matter so damn much. Even after ten years, it shouldn't have mattered at all.

A thump and he fell to his knees. Papers fluttered around him like disturbed butterflies, before falling limp at upon his open hands. He snarled, face bare with snapping teeth, and he began to rip through the paperwork. Uncaring that some tore under his hand, he dug until he found the envelope and slashed it apart. Unsatiated he frantically dug through the papers again, desperate.

Eyes hooked onto the official green. A hand snatched the thin check and tore it.

Something snapped and Pellinore gasped, a drowning man breaking the surface of the deluge.

He sat on his knees, hands upturned with the half-torn check cradled loosely as if in offer. His face bowed upwards, eyes closed and face damp with his release. Only his chest moved, beating with his intake of harsh breath.

Eyelashes flitted against darkened cheeks, before relieving the man of his burden.

Pellinore Warthrop cried, with only the captured marks on shred sheets and the whispers of his small New York room witness to his failure.

 

***

 

"Who is this?"

"It's Pellinore, your friend, the one who you used to play pranks on for seven years straight, or has your brain deteriorated in its idleness?" snapped Warthrop.

This was his second call to the Chanler household and fourth ring before the blasted man had picked up. Luckily, it wasn’t a feminine voice to answer and some of his previous anxiety ebbed away.

"What do I owe this pleasure of you waking me up and sounding like someone has stuck a pole up your ass?" asked John, slightly amused tone cracking over the line.

"I am not in the mood John," barked Pellinore into the receiver, its coiled cord bouncing with his agitation.

"Then what did you call me for?" His voice took on a stained edge to it. "It's been a year since I last heard from you."

Pellinore's head bowed, hair poking his eyes. After John’s marriage to Muriel, Pellinore did his best to keep in touch with him, but it became too much for him. Not only keep up the pretense that he was over it and all was well with him, but to also see his friend happy with the woman he once loved with all his heart.

Emotions were a messy and overwhelming thing and he did not want to be crippled any longer by trying to analyze them, so it was more efficient and preserving to simply let it go, and store them away.

He closed his eyes, willing his thumping heart to calm and breathing to slow. His thin hands coiled tightly around the cord and the phone.

"I finally received something from my father, John."

There was a long pause from the other end before a sharp _Fuck!_ came through. White noise bubbled into Pellinore's ear as John paced on the other end.

"It was because of your Candiru expedition, wasn't it? That bastard wants in on your results, doesn't he?" hissed John vehemently.

That part of John hadn't changed and Pellinore laughed weakly at his reaction. They were hardly alike, John and him, but John always understood Pellinore's relationship with his own father, as he too tread upon the same path.

"To be quite honest, I am not entirely sure," admitted Pellinore softly, eyes flicking to the torn slip of paper peeking from under his messy pile of papers. "All he sent was a check."

John was speechless.

"Wait, you are telling me that after a whole decade of nothing, he just randomly sends you a check out of the blue without a note?"

"Precisely; John," Pellinore's voice cracked a bit at the name, “I don't know what to make of it. I almost tore it to pieces, but I couldn't."

John swore again.

"If it was me, I'd march right up to your father's doorstep and slug him right in his shitty face, Pell. You know I would."

The voice on the other end paused, as if searching for something, before resuming again.

"Hey, would you like me to come over there?"

Pellinore's toes curled in his socks, wavering. How many times, despite all the pranks and embarrassment John had put him through the years, did John ask him this very question? After he didn't make top marks in the class he stayed up countless hours into the night for. When his father did not show up or even respond to either of his graduations. When he was diagnosed.

His friend John had always been a steadfast presence growing up in the von Helrung household, and it was one of the things he secretly mourned when they came to blows over John's love for Muriel.

But here he was again, and Pellinore gave in to his weakness.

"Please."

"Ok Pell, I'll be there by noon." There was a pause as if he was about to hang up, and then- “Oh and Pell, please make sure you look presentable? I don't think my poor ego can handle it if someone thought I pulled you straight out of bed again."

A surprised laugh fell from Pellinore's lips before he shot back in thanks, "John, you are the biggest ass and you are fortunate I won't kick you."

John laughed in response, said goodbye and hung up.

The ending tone droned in his ear before Pellinore stuck the handset back into its plastic compartment. He went to freshen himself up, resolute to put this behind him as with everything else that hurt him in his young life.

 

***

 

"You want to...do what?" asked John as soon as a faceful of anxious Pell erupted right in his personal space from the open door.

"I swear John, you are the prime example why one should remain untethered, as your senses must be leaving you," remarked Pellinore, shaking his head. "I want to buy a vehicle. With the money."

"Yeah yeah I heard that bit," said John pushing Pellinore out of his bubble. "But I thought you were upset and wanted to tear it up this morning?"

"Precisely so, but I want to get something that my father will deem wasteful yet will be practical to my needs," replied Pellinore, hands behind his back and rocking on his heels.

John gaped openly at his old schoolmate, before shaking his head.

"Hold up," he said, dragging a large hand over his face. "You are telling me that in order to get back at your shitty ass father, you are going to spend the very money he sent to you, in order to spite him."

Pellinore frowned. "That is correct. Why did that need to be reiterated?"

John shook his head again before sticking his face in both hands and pulling at his face again.

"Oh, no reason besides making sure I heard everything crystal clear Pell." John chuckled under his breath in disbelief.

“Bloody hell."

John stared at his friend as he shifted from one foot to the other in the entranceway, clean with his untamed hair curling around his dark eyes and about his ears.

"Ok you seem ready to go, so I'm guessing you have an idea of a type of vehicle in mind?"

"A car."

John pinched in-between his eyes. "Oh Jesus Pell, that is certainly specific. Do you at least have the brand you’d like?"

Pellinore scowled and crossed his arms. "As long as it's not a Lincoln or a foreign make like your obscene Mercedes-Benz, I am willing to consider anything."

John laughed, thrusting his hands into his brown bomber jacket. "You have me there! I may be American, but you cannot deny the sexiness of German engineering my friend."

 John waggled his trim brows.

Pellinore's face scrunched in response. "Whatever makes you think that's an attribute I wish to have?"

John stared at Pellinore a full five seconds before erupting into raucous laughter, tears springing into his eyes. Pellinore huffed in disgust as John doubled up on himself, hands on his knees.

"Pellinore, one day you will be the death of me, I swear to God," he wheezed. He looked up and patted his friend's shoulder, still bent over and face red as an apple.

"Let's go in, do a bit of research, and then we can go visit a couple of lots and get dinner while we are at it, ok?" John gulped in some air, chocked a bit. "Else I don't think I'll make it home alive."

Pellinore rolled his eyes and moved over to let John Chanler into his apartment.

After narrowing it down to the makes and models Pellinore was willing to even consider and making use of the facilities, both men hopped into John's red Mercedes convertible and took off towards the New Jersey border. John knew they would overcharge in the dealerships just outside of New York City, so he was willing to drive the extra millage to save a couple thousand. Not to mention Pellinore would throw a fit if he had to spend more than the dealership guide he brought dictated.

John drove one-handed, the other tapping the exterior doorframe while he jammed to ACDC, the open highway speeding through his blood and blurring past. His slicked back hair held fast unlike Pell's with whipped every which way like an errant schoolchild. His friend, however, was nose-deep in the dealer guide, giving certain pages a dog-ear and highlighting particular cars.

Though they were the same age, John often felt like Pellinore was his younger brother in a way, his long lanky form all mussed and tossed into a rumpled Revolver tee and wrinkled slacks.

"Anything catch your eye yet Pell?" called John over the roar of the engine and swell of the wind.

"Mostly Dodges and Pontiacs, and this Camaro," replied Pell, flipping the book so John could glance at it. "Most of these are mundane so it’s a waste of money or atrocious, so also a waste of money."

"God that Porsche is a horrible design though," remarked John, before attending back to the road. "It's all round and lumpy."

Pellinore laughed and turned the page, the dejected and haunted look long expelled from his features.

 "My father would love it except for the fact it's not American. He loves anything that screams wealth from a distance."

"You and my dad both man," agreed John, adjusting his wayfarers.

They made it to the town of West Orange, where John had remembered a dealership that catered to American models of cars the last time he rolled through to visit extended family in New Jersey. He smiled wickedly to himself as well, coming here on another reason that suited his love of joking with his long-time friend.

"Here we are Pell!" he shouted happily cuffing his friend in the shoulder, pulling him out of his book.

"Will you stop that? I know we are here because you stopped the car," snapped Pellinore, looking affronted. He rubbed his shoulder as if John socked him instead.

"Oh boo hoo, you are a party pooper Pellinore Warthrop. Here, get out and gambol among all the makes and models and find one to your liking."

John hopped out the convertible and made a shooing motion.

"Why are you treating me like some wayward child, John? Don't think I've forgotten punching you in your smug face that last time," warned Pellinore, shutting the door.

"Wouldn't dream of it Pell. After all, I will fondly remember the swollen eye I returned right back!" called John over his shoulder has he made his way to the suited dealer coming towards them.

Grumbling, Pellinore left John to converse with the dealer, while he picked his way around the car lot, colourful flags fluttering overhead in the breeze. He peered into a variety of compartments and took mental notes on any that captured his interest. Most were unremarkable, which would infuriate his father but made Pellinore instantly bored and uninterested.

He came across some from the book tucked under his arm, but upon closer inspection he found it wasn't at all what he wanted. Some had pretentious leather seating, which was highly impractical for hauling equipment or getting dirty. Some were only two-seaters which meant no room for additional bodies if the need should ever arise, and that wouldn't do.

Frustrated Pell bounded up to John, interrupting his engaging conversation with the dealer.

"None of the cars are acceptable," he informed him.

John's brows rose. "And you checked to see if they had the ones from the guide?"

"Yes yes," snapped Pellinore throwing an agitated glance over the selection of cars. "But upon further examination, not one added up to what I desire in a vehicle."

John swore and rubbed the back of his head. He turned to the dealer, hands thrust inside his bomber jacket.

"Sorry sir, but may I ask if you know of another dealer that specializes in American-made cars?" asked John awkwardly.

"I do," started the dealer, rocking on his heels and smiling as if hiding something. "But have you checked our lot in the back? The older '88 and '89 models are back there before we ship them back. You've only looked at our newer 1990 selection."

Pellinore shook his head, and John looked at the dealer curiously.

"You still have '88 models? Those are more than a year old now."

"Yes sir. They are discounted as they are last year's versions, so we try to sell them before we have to ship them out."

John shrugged and turned towards Pellinore, brow in query.

"That would be most acceptable," answered Pellinore, falling next to John as they followed the man to the back lot. Around fifty cars parked in rows hung back there, half-shaded under a grove of bare trees.

Pellinore took the lead, flitting from one car to the next with John right behind, ambling along. Pellinore pressed his face into every window, checking the interior but mostly scoffing and dismissing each one in turn. He complained to John now that he had an audience, mumbling about unnecessary and useless features or the lack of extremely important ones, like trunk space. Though why Pellinore would need ample trunk space was beyond John's comprehension.

Tossing his head back and groaning to himself, John was suddenly seized by the arm in a viselike grip.

"Wha—Damn it Pellinore what is it? You nearly-"

"THIS. JOHN. I found it!" breathed Pellinore, anxious excitement giving the words a slight wavering quality John had not heard in a long time.

Curiosity jolting John into seriousness, he allowed Pellinore to pull him towards his find, the young man's cheekbones awash in flushed enthusiasm.

"Here John! This is the one!" Pellinore let go of John's arm and clapped his hands together, reminding John of their younger days on the first day of class.

While John looked upon the vehicle in front of him, Pellinore bounced and dashed around the white Dodge with a gleam in his eye, entire being exuding unmitigated delight.

"It has four seats John and not only that, the trunk is a hatchback, come see!" He waved rapidly at John, over the racer-back blinds of the windowed trunk, directing him to peer through the triangular tiny glass window for the back seat.

"See? And the seats fold down if you need more trunk space for large objects! It opens up to the back seating area unlike the rest of the cars here!"

Pellinore jumped from his spot and dragged John to the windshield where he continued in a rush. "The seats are faux leather so it's easily cleaned and is able to get wet, and John. _John."_

Pellinore turned towards him, capturing his blue eyes with his own backlit ones.

"It has turbo."

John stared at Pell.

"Turbo? Pell...since when have you wanted turbo?" asked John, completely and utterly befuddled.

Pellinore grinned with wicked pleasure.

"Since my own father professed to me as a child his unwavering and steadfast disgust for anything that is even remotely related to the sport of NASCAR." He leaned in conspiratorially. "And John, it's a Daytona. He'll loathe it so damn much."

John straightened and laughed richly. It was perfect.

"Pell, you have such a knack for finding shit I don't know whether to be terrified of your talent or in awe of it. So how much is it?"

Pell jogged to the other side where the information was taped to the passenger window. He peeked over the roof of the car.

"It's $9800!"

"Well I'll be damned," whistled John, pleased. "Now let's see if we can work out a deal here Pell and get this baby home."

The evening fell upon them with clear skies by the time they made it off the lot. Pellinore negotiated the price down to $9500 including all the fees and taxes after more than an hour of outright bickering and refusing to budge any higher than the price he thought was fair. Deed in hand, Pellinore whapped John from his doze in the commercial chair where he waited, promptly informing him they'd be able to pick up the car tomorrow after it had been thoroughly inspected and it’s fluids changed fully.

John smirked at his friend in response, making Pellinore falter a bit before inquiring what he was up too.

"Nothing at all Pellinore, why would you think that? I am merely ecstatic at your mission completed," John replied, saluting in Pell's direction. Pell only scowled harder, eyes narrowing.

"You are up to something and I know it," accused Pellinore. "Don't insult my years of experience living with you by denying it."

"Oh you got me Pell," sighed John, plopping into the convertible. "I have business here, so I'm not taking you home."

He grinned like a fool at Pellinore's furious face.

"What? I have work to do! You cannot do this John," shouted Pellinore.

"Oh hush its one day Pell, and your work can wait. It's for your own good. You've been working nonstop- don't you dare tell me otherwise! I know you too, you know. So I am taking you with me on this mini-break and we'll be visiting the Edison Estate tomorrow before we stop by and pick up your car."

At Pellinore's flabbergasted face, John smirked and patted the seat.

"I knew you'd be up for that, plus my work allows us backdoor access! Imagine Pellinore! Getting to explore Thomas Edison's labs on your own personal tour!"

His friend mutely tucked himself into the leather seat flushing. However, a small inward smile threatened to break free upon his thin lips. John gave himself a mental high five of a job well done, having fully helped his friend finally set foot on the path to exorcising oneself of their inherited parental demons.

 

***

 

Pellinore arrived back in his Chelsea apartment in the early evening, having spent the entirety of the morning engrossed in Thomas Edison’s preserved laboratory, avidly soaking in the environment of the 19th century’s greatest scientist and inventor with it period setting tools and machinery. While John attended to his business in retrieving documents and information for his work, Pellinore was treated to a personal tour behind-the-scenes with a knowledgeable historian and biographer of Edison himself. Halfway into the tour, John joined them and together they wrapped up before lunch.

Afterwards, they stopped for lunch and picked up his Daytona. Pellinore followed close behind John, who proceeded to flip him the bird every time he drove too slow for his liking. Once in NYC, John waved Pellinore a fond goodbye from his convertible once Pell pulled up to a free spot in front of his apartment.

When Pellinore entered the building, a large piece of cardstock caught his attentions, peeking through the small glass window in his brass mailbox. A bit apprehensive, he walked over to the wall and unlocked his box, slipping the envelope out. Flipping it over, he gasped and dropped it. The thick envelope fell with an audible thump.

Heart beating fast, Pellinore bent over to retrieve the letter. He hadn’t expected anything to come of it. His head felt light and he couldn’t grasp why he felt so strange at receiving such a letter.

Sweeping curls filled the entirety of the addressee area, his name in overarching and elegant curls that bespoke of a strong and confident hand. There was no return address, save a single name: _Jack._

Long legs propelled his eager body up three flights of stairs, his limbs aquiver. The keys fumbled in his hands as he sought the correct one and punched it into the scratched up lock. He stumbled through the door, free hand groping for the light and smacking it on. He threw himself in his desk chair ready to tear open the letter but stopped himself.

Carefully he cut open the side with some scissors, and tapped the contents out onto the desk. Several sheets of crisply folded foolscap fell out along with a glossy brochure, a thick tour’s guide pamphlet, several polaroids and an official letter sealed in its own envelope.

Fingers trembled as they picked up and perused the Smithsonian guides, detailing the finds of a one Jack Kearns as well as years of accumulated taxidermy specimens including some donated from Theodore Roosevelt himself. The museum was particularly proud of its two most recent acquisitions, a large man-eating anaconda and an extremely rare _Atelocynus microtis,_ or Amazonian bush dog.

Setting aside the guides, Pellinore finally took up the missive and unfolded it. Clean and evenly spaced handwriting winked beguilingly from the parchment, his name curling atop the paragraphs of Jack’s transcribed thoughts.

 

_My dear Pellinore,_

_I presumed you have given me your address with the expressed wish for me to write to you first, I do believe. Why else would you have not asked for mine, I wonder? You are a most fascinating specimen Pellinore Xavier Warthrop, and I do hope to have the pleasure of your most esteemed company once again in the future._

_I have included the exhibition’s pamphlets on my acquisitions from my expedition out in the Amazon, as I figured you will be most interested, given your delight at my procurement of the anaconda. I will admit, the preservationists were simply astounded at your work in making sure the hide of the snake was both supple and well attended to, that for them it was as if it was still breathing when they unearthed it from the crate. My utmost admiration for your skill Pellinore. Shall I bear witness to more of your extraordinary skill and talent when our paths cross once more?_

_Also included is a sealed letter of thanks from my director, though I fear they might have their eye on your talents as well, so do not be surprised if there is also a letter positively begging for your services. I simply could not let your talent go unladed in the wake of my discovery. Do with it what you will. However, I am most curious as to the conclusion of your own expedition. I did read about it in the_ Journal of Aberrant Biology _as we subscribe to all periodicals in material relating to that of the scientific persuasion, but I wish to hear your thoughts and opinion. After I am acquainted with the man himself you can say._

_Enclosed are several sheets of my own thoughts and data from my fortuitous hunt, having been able to procure every sample I set out to catch, and was indeed paid handsomely for the task. I figured you would be interested in reading through the details that I have included with every specimen as well as several pictures of each. I am currently on the move for my next hunt as this one has ended with utter triumph. Though in the end, I do believe I might have captured more than I originally set out to do._

_Yours,_

_Jack_

 

Though Pellinore resumed looking though the other contents of Jack’s package, he kept returning to the personal letter addressed to him. For some reason, it made him feel a substantial amount of joy and relief but for what, he did not know.

Pellinore spent the rest of the night rereading all the letters and pamphlets, until he had them all memorized. Exhausted he fell asleep in his arms, pillowed by the letters and the words that flowed from them.

***


End file.
